I am strong

 They say I am strong, but the truth is—I get tired.

I feel anxious, afraid, lonely, and weak.

They call me strong because I can still laugh through my pain,

because I offer advice to others even while carrying my own burdens.

But no one sees me cry—because I do it silently.

No one knows how much I struggle with the battles I fight in private.

They say I am strong, but only a few have seen me broken and vulnerable.

Even when there’s a war raging inside my head, I try so hard to keep my composure.

They say I am strong—but am I?

No one asks if I’m still fine.

Maybe that’s why I’m always the one reaching out to others, asking how they are.

Deep down, I wish someone would do the same for me.

When I was going through something heavy and silent, no one reached out.

It felt like if I didn’t initiate, no one would talk to me at all.

I want more than just surface-level conversations about fun or exciting moments.

I long for someone who will listen to my failures, insecurities, and vulnerabilities without judgment.

They say I am strong—but am I?

Am I really strong, or have I simply learned to hide my pain so well that no one notices anymore?

Is strength measured by resilience, or by how little we allow ourselves to fall apart in front of others?

The truth is, I don’t always feel strong.

Sometimes, I feel fragile, worn thin by the weight of pretending everything is okay.

What I need isn’t applause for enduring—it’s understanding, connection, and love.

So maybe instead of saying “You’re so strong,”

someone could ask,

“How are you doing?”

Because even the strongest among us need a safe space to be human.